Bold and Blooded

by Andrew Wareham

  One of Toller’s clerks came trotting down to them, a pale, plump, sheltered man of fifty or so, now panicking, terrified.

  “Master, they have opened the safe box and are counting out the money therein. They have ordered me out and told me never to return. They are loading their wagon from the shelves, master.”

  Toller was outraged, said he would have the law on them.

  Micah was irritated by his refusal to acknowledge the trouble he faced.

  “Be silent, Mr Toller! You are arrested in possession of weapons of war, to be used by the oppressor King against his honest subjects. The less you see of the law, the better for you these next hours and days until men’s tempers have cooled. Come with me now. If you will not send your family away, then you must leave them to their fate here.”

  Toller finally accepted that he was in jeopardy. He begged ten minutes to instruct his wife on her course for the next days. Micah acquiesced, not liking the persecution of a family but fearing it to be inevitable.

  There was a wife and three grown girls; he had no son.

  “My Giles died at four years, sir. The spotted fever.”

  Children died – every family must expect to lose one or more. It was nonetheless a thing of great sadness.

  “The Lord disposes, Mr Toller.”

  “A harsh doctrine, sir.”

  Toller turned to his wife and ordered her to take the money in their bedroom and to pack her valuables and to walk out to Barnack, to his brother.

  “The stables will be in the hands of the villains by now. You must walk. My brother can come in with a wagon tomorrow to collect all you leave behind.”

  Micah suspected he might come to an emptied house but said nothing. He led Toller away and saw him placed secure in a cell.

  “You may be safer there, Mr Toller. I suspect passions may run high in the town when word spreads that you had purchased arms to subject the folk here to tyranny.”

  “What will happen to my goods, to my warehouse, Lieutenant?”

  Micah did not know as a certainty.

  “If you are called traitor, then all will be confiscated.”

  “But… how will I then make a living?”

  “As a traitor, sir, that will not be your concern. There is a penalty for treason.”

  It had not occurred to Toller that his actions might be called treachery, that he could be treated as a traitor.

  “They will not hang me, sir, surely? I am not without friends in Stamford, sir.”

  Micah though he might be wrong there. He suspected there was no more certain way of losing friends than to be called traitor when the mob was in hanging mood.

  He returned to Toller’s house and found Corporal Meadows sat on the bench of the heavily laden wagon.

  “To the barracks, sir?”

  “Captain Holdby will tell you where to unload, Meadows. Is there more here?”

  “All warlike stores are in the wagon, sir.”

  “Well done. I shall go to the nearest of the other houses and then to the other two. Remain in barracks to stand guard over our takings. Keep an eye out for the other companies, Meadows. We do not want to lose our spoils to them.”

  “Shan’t no way do that, sir.”

  Meadows twitched the ribbons and the pair slowly took the wagon away, all of the section following.

  “Where are the others, Rootes?”

  His servant led him along the street and past the church and the square to a narrower winding lane leading out to the Spalding road. Part way along was the premises of a carpenter and joiner, the biggest furniture-maker of the town.

  Jasper was stood outside with his section, a pair of constables close by and arguing with a man in a long leather apron, sawdust covered.

  “Beg pardon, sir. Nothing here, sir. Been right the way through the place. No firelocks; no powder, match or ball. No staves for pikes, sir.”

  “Good. What is the debate?”

  “Them constables, sir, want to arrest the man because he’s on their list of men what supports the King. He says he ain’t done nothing and they can’t take him up just for opening his mouth.”

  Micah caught the eye of the senior of the constables, beckoned him across.

  “Have you got a warrant for this man’s arrest?”

  The constable waved a piece of paper.

  “What does it say, man?”

  “Dunno, sir. Ain’t got me letters.”

  “Give it me!”

  The document was brief – Mr Kit Plummer was to be taken up on discovery of evidence of malignancy.

  “No evidence has been found. He cannot be arrested. Offer your apology for disturbing the gentleman on a working day and leave his premises.”

  The constables obeyed Micah and were gone within the minute.

  “Mr Plummer?”

  “Yes, soldier?”

  “My advice to you is to pack up and get out of Stamford. Mr Toller has been taken up on charges of treason and may well hang before the week is out. You may well follow – I do not believe the court will be much interested in evidence. To be known as a King’s man will be enough. I have no wish to take part in the persecution of the innocent, but I cannot offer thee protection, I fear. Get you gone, sir!”

  “I have a cousin Belmesthorpe way, soldier. He has a big enough house to accommodate me and mine until this trouble is over. He has a barn to make over as a workshop. Should I take all with me?”

  “Everything you can move, man! And quickly. The town will very soon become unpleasant, I fear.”

  “My thanks, soldier. What is thy name?”

  “Slater. Lieutenant Micah Slater.”

  “I shall remember your goodness of heart, sir.”

  Micah led Jasper and his section to the third place to be visited, found it empty – the master, a shopkeeper, James Cooper, arrested and taken away, the contraband goods loaded up and ready to be carted off, the family in disarray and with nowhere to go and unable to stay.

  “Come away, Corporal Parrish. None of our affair. Escort your wagon to the barracks and report to Captain Holdby. Corporal Albright, lead the way to the last place.”

  Just two hundred yards distant, on the eastern edges of the small town, and they came to a small farmhouse with a pair of barns and a dairy. The constable’s wagon was loading from one barn, a pair of full drays waiting to the front.

  The section was to hand, surrounding a pair of men and a single constable. There was a body on the ground, covered with a piece of sacking.

  “Report, Corporal Winterbourne.”

  “Sir. Got ‘ere, so us did, sir, with the two constables and they called for this man Farmer to come out, what ‘e did, and they tells ‘im they is to search for stuff what ‘e didn’t ought to be ‘aving, like. Farmer tells they to bugger off, they ain’t searching ‘is place what is ‘is land for generations back. They tells ‘im ‘e be under arrest and t’other one comes out from the barn with a bloody pitchfork and sticks the constable straight – not a word said. I ups and clips him round the ear with the butt and down ‘e goes and the rest of the section grabs the pair and puts they in irons, sir. Then we ‘as a look through the barns and inside the ‘ouse and there be two score of firelocks, muskets and pistols as is, and they thick leather jerkins what ‘oss soldiers wears. Besides that, they got swords, both short and long, and the ‘eads for pikes, sir. Reckon they could ‘ave armed a full company of foot, pike and shot mixed, and a squadron of dragoons, sir.”

  “Well done, Winterbourne – you did the right thing. Is that oxen I see, ready to go into the shafts?”

  “Two pair, sir.”

  “Have any of you handled draught oxen?”

  Five of the men said they had grown up with them.

  “Good. Take the wains and the wagon back to the castle. Captain Holdby will tell you what to do when you get there. Corporal Winterbourne, take them away. I shall escort the prisoners to the Court Rooms.”

  “Yes, sir. They got a donkey cart ‘ere, sir, wh
at could carry the dead ‘un, sir.”

  “Well seen. Harness it up and put the body aboard.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Years of Blood Series

  Bold and Blooded

  Squire Tixover was angry. Word had been brought to him of a soldier - an officer, it was said - appearing in Collyweston and staying in the village, apparently made welcome for being a local man. The report was only vague – a carter picking up a load of slates had spoken with the quarryman and had later gossiped with the Squire’s agent, who was very secretive by nature, particularly when he was not doing the Squire’s work – and there had been no names nor even a precise day.

  He did not for a moment believe that this unknown officer was actually of the village – that was hardly possible – but he might perhaps be a cousin whose father had risen in the world.

  His main cause for concern was that the officer had not displayed the simple courtesy of paying a morning call upon him. An officer was a gentleman and should therefore have shown his face to the sole resident gentleman of the locality. A lesser worry was that the man might not be wholly loyal to his King – he had, apparently, spoken to the damned pastor, who was a traitor through and through.

  Squire took the only action open to him – he rode into the village on the Sunday afternoon to observe the village men at their drill and in passing to speak to any of the local people who would not run away from him.

  He sat on his horse for a few minutes, listening to the crack of pistol shots and watching the pikes at their drill and thinking them at least adequate. He had never himself gone to war, but the single rank seemed to him to be well together. There was a man in his middle years stood watching the pikes; not so old that he could not have joined them, Squire thought.

  “You, my man! Here!”

  The villager stirred slowly and made his way to the Squire’s horse. It seemed to him that the man could have shown more willing, but he ignored that for the while, he would speak to him first.

  “Who are you?”

  “Beeston, I be, Squire. I did ‘ave the old quarry back of the ridge, sir.”

  “Why are you not at drill, Beeston?”

  “Busted up me foot, two year since. Broke all the toes, so I did. Can’t walk but slow-like.”

  “If you put in an effort, man, rather than sit back and say you’re crippled, you’d soon find it was better. I want to see you with a pike in your hand next week!”

  Beeston found walking an effort, thought he did well to keep working his little quarry.

  “You bloody old fool! I work every bloody day – what is more than you can say! And it bloody well ‘urts when I do it. All right for you to sit up on your bloody ‘oss and tell I to walk on a broken foot – you ain’t never done nothin’ all your good for nothin’ life. If you sees me with a pike it’ll be because I’s sticking it in you, big mouth, old shit thou art!”

  Squire Tixover stared open-mouthed – he had never in his whole life been so insulted by one of the locals. Their place in his existence was to obey and to apologise for having made him notice them.

  “Ralston! Arrest this fool! Take him into Stamford and throw him in the town lock-up and put him before the Bench. I shall see him hanged for threatening my life!”

  Ralston turned to the pistolmen and ordered them to tie Beeston and throw him into the cart that carried the pikes and armour. They looked at each other and stayed motionless.

  “I gave an order.”

  “Stick your order, Gamekeeper Ralston.”

  “Sergeant to you, Jacob Slater.”

  “Not no more, Ralston. Thou and that old fool on the horse had better leave Collyweston. There is no place for thy sort of bully-boy. Go.”

  “I am in command of this section of the Trained Band, Slater. You have one chance to obey or I shall see thee at the whipping post.”

  Jacob looked at the pistol in his hand. He could surrender now or make a stand for the right. If he obeyed now, he would never be his own man. He lifted the pistol, his outstretched hand holding the weapon perfectly still and thumb slowly bringing the flint back to the cocked position, exactly as he had been trained.

  “Go or die, Ralston. Leave the wagon and walk off or I shall blow a hole through thy chest. Now, man!”

  Ralston realised that he was a second away from a pistol ball and he must comply or die stalwartly defiant. He slumped, his shoulders sagging, his pride gone. He turned away, hands fiddling with the straps of his breast and back, dropping the armour to the ground as he slouched off, stopping at a distance to wait for his master and knowing that he would be dismissed, thrown out of his house, forced out of the parish. He would not starve – he had no wife and family to hold him and would go into town and join the ranks. Any old soldier could be sure of a welcome – they were short of men. He could work his way into the quartermaster’s stores, knowing the ropes from his days in the Germanies, where he’d kept well clear of the smell of powder. It was not what he wanted, he had had his fill of the military, but it was better than dying in the gutter.

  Jacob was emboldened by his success with Ralston and turned to Squire Tixover, sat unbelieving in his saddle.

  “Go! Thee and thy King both are unwelcome here. Return to Collyweston at peril of your life, old man!”

  Squire Tixover ignored the pointing pistol. People did not threaten him. Village yokels did not kill their masters. It could not be happening.

  “I shall see you hang for this, Jacob Slater. I shall send to the Lord Lieutenant and he will march the garrison out of Stamford and will take up you and your fellow traitors. You will swing from the gallows tree, that I promise! Every man of you! Take him up now or be traitors!”

  Jacob laughed.

  “Thou art an old bag of wind, Squire! If the garrison marches up the hill to Collyweston, it will be to put fire to your house for being an enemy to the people of this land. Thou art a malignant, a friend to the papists and a menace to the liberty of free-born Englishmen. Call upon thy Lord Lieutenant as much as thou wish – the garrison will heed thee not!”

  Squire Tixover was alone. He carried no weapon, not even a ceremonial sword to denote his status. The villagers’ pikes were sharpened and the pistols, he knew, were all loaded. To run was simple common sense, a quality he had never cultivated. He raised his riding crop and spurred his horse towards Jacob.

  Two pikes crossed as they entered his chest, knocking him to the ground. Hands grabbed at the reins and pulled the horse aside.

  The men of the Trained Band gathered around the body – indisputably dead, pikeheads sticking out of its back.

  “What the bloody Hell do we do now?”

  Ralston came running back, horrified and unable to think of what must happen next.

  “You have killed Squire! You will all hang for this! I shall call for the Law.”

  “Maybe not, Ralston. They cannot hang me twice.”

  Jacob shot Ralston through the head at a yard’s range, left him as dead as his master. He waved to his hired men.

  “Take them to the old diggings behind my house. Put them under the spoil. Quick!”

  Pastor Doddington had been left behind by the pace of events – he found himself bereft, unable to think, to lead, to be master of his villagers in their hour of peril,

  “What of the horse, Jacob?”

  “I shall walk it down to Stamford, to the castle, to my brother, Pastor Doddington. When they come searching for the two, thou wilt say they left at their normal time but were to go to Stamford to talk with the Major at the castle. Figgis is his name, so my brother said. After that, we saw them not.”

  “But…”

  “But nothing, Pastor! We saw nowt! We know nowt! They went away and left us to store the arms. Perhaps they were to arrange training at the garrison’s side. We do not know and it is none of our business where the Squire chose to go or what he was going to do. I shall put all in my brother’s hands. He will know what is best, Pastor. For now, it is time for evening ser
vice and thou must and shalt lead the village in its duty to the Lord.”

  “What of the bodies? Are they to lie in unconsecrated ground without so much as a prayer said over them? Can we so ignore our duty to God?”

  Jacob had no patience with such nit-picking.

  “They were followers of the King and therefore heretics and traitors. They have no claim on us, Pastor. When it is safe, perhaps a service may be held over their resting place, but not until the wars are over.”

  Pastor Doddington was overwhelmed by Jacob’s forceful manner – he had always received meek and total obedience from his flock and did not know what to do when faced with resolution from them.

  “I shall lead us all in prayer, Brother Slater. I shall beg the Lord to forgive us if we have sinned and to watch over thy steps.”

  Jacob turned away and took the horse’s reins from the pikeman holding them.

  “Shouldst thou not put thy pistol away, Brother Slater?”

  “No, Pastor. I shall never walk unarmed again while malignants roam this land of ours. I shall carry my pistol and loads for it.”

  The other pistolmen grunted their agreement and made a show of holding on to their own weapons.

  The Caton brothers came running back from the Slater’s quarries.

  “We put ‘em down where the slate grew thin, over at the back, Mister Slater. Pulled the loose spoil over they, so us did, and then shovelled down a bit from the top. Come the morning, best we should tumble the back face down to put a few more feet over they.”

  Jacob stood tall, the master speaking to his servants.

  “Well done lads! Ye both are faithful servants and shall be rewarded. Go to chapel now. Pastor! Tell them all to say not a word, to each other or to any man besides. Silence will save our necks. Loose mouths might kill the whole village. Tell the womenfolk especially not to gossip.”

  Pastor Doddington pledged himself to put the fear of God into them.

  Jacob glanced at the saddle on the horse, thought about trying to climb into it. He shook his head – not without some sort of lessons. He would look a complete fool if he fell off, and if the horse ran away, back to its stables, then the alarm would be raised, Squire’s family would know that he had come to harm and search first in the village. If searchers spotted new, fresh stone in the quarry then they would dig there. The stone would weather inside the week but for those few days the graves would be too visible. Eventually, there would be some sort of investigation of the village, but if it was delayed a week then there would be nothing found – they could not dig every quarry on the offchance.